clear that even CNN didn’t know what was going on, and if CNN didn’t
know, then nobody did. Wasn’t that just great, Clark thought. It was like the
legend of Cassandra, the daughter of King Priam of Troy who always knew
what was happening, and who was always ignored. But Clark didn’t even
have a way of getting the word out. . . did he?
/ wonder if. . . ? No. He shook his head. That was too crazy.
“All ahead full,” the Commanding Officer of Eisenhower said.
“All ahead full, aye,” the quartermaster on the enunciator pushed the
handles forward. A moment later the inner arrow rotated to the same posi-
tion. “Sir, engine room answers all ahead full.”
“Very well.” The CO looked over at Admiral Dubro. “Care to lay any
bets, sir?”
The best information, oddly enough, came from sonar. Two of the battle
group’s escorts had their towed-array sonars, called “tails,” streamed, and
their data, combined with that of two nuclear submarines to the formation’s
starboard, indicated that the Indian formation was a good way off to the
south. It was one of those odd instances, more common than one might ex-
pect, where sonar far outperformed radar, whose electronic waves were lim-
ited by the curve of the earth, while sound waves found their own deep
channels. The Indian fleet was over a hundred fifty miles away, and though
(hul was spilling distance for jel attack aircraft, the Indians were looking lo
their south, not the north, and it further appeared that Admiral (‘luiulraskatla
didn’t relish night-flight operations and the risks they entailed tor Ins limited
collection of Harriers. Well, both men thought, night landings on a carrier
weren’t exactly fun.
“Better than even,” Admiral Dubro replied after a moment’s analysis.
“I think you’re right.”
The formation was blacked out, not an unusual circumstance for warships,
all its radars turned off, and the only radios in use were line-of-sight units
with burst-transmission capability, which broadcast for hundredths of sec-
onds only. Even satellite sets generated side-lobes that could betray their
position, and their covert passage south of Sri Lanka was essential.
“World War Two was like this,” the CO went on, giving voice to his
nerves. They were depending on the most human of fundamentals. Extra
lookouts had been posted, who used both regular binoculars and “night-
eye” electronic devices to sweep the horizon for silhouettes and mast-tops,
while others on lower decks looked closer in for the telltale “feather” of a
submarine periscope. The Indians had two submarines out on which Dubro
did not have even an approximate location. They were probably probing
south, too, but if Chandraskatta was really as smart as he feared, he would
have left one close in, just as insurance. Maybe. Dubro’s deception operation
had been a skillful one.
“Admiral?” Dubro’s head turned. It was a signalman. “FLASH Traffic
from CINCPAC.” The petty officer handed over the clipboard and held a
red-covered flashlight over the dispatch so that the battle-group commander
could read it.
“Did you acknowledge receipt?” the Admiral asked before he started
reading.
“No, sir, you left orders to chimp everything down.”
“Very good, sailor.” Dubro started reading. In a second he was holding
both the clipboard and the flashlight. ”Son of a bitch!”
Special Agent Robberton would drive Cathy home, and with that notifica-
tion, Ryan again became a government functionary rather than a human
being with a wife and family. It was a short walk to Marine One, its rotor
already turning. President and Mrs. Durling, JUMPER and JASMINE, had done
(he requisite smiles for the cameras and had used the opportunity of the long
flight to beg off answering any questions. Ryan trailed behind like some sort
of equerry.
“Take an hour to get caught up,” Durling said as the helicopter landed on
(he south lawn of the White House. “When is the Ambassador scheduled
in?”
“Eleven-thirty,” Brett Hanson replied.
“I want you, Arnie, and Jack there tor the meeting.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” the Secretary of State acknowledged.
The usual photographers were there, but most of the White House report-
ers whose shouted questions so annoyed everyone were still back at An-
drews collecting their bags. Inside the ground-floor entrance was a larger
contingent of Secret Service agents than normal. Ryan headed west and was
in his office two minutes later, shedding his coat and sitting down at a desk
already decorated with call slips. Those he ignored for the moment, as he
lifted the phone and dialed CIA.
“DDO, welcome back, Jack,” Mary Pat Foley said. Ryan didn’t bother
asking how she knew it was him. Not that many had her direct line.
“How bad?”
“Our embassy personnel are safe. The embassy has not as yet been en-
tered, and we’re destroying everything.” Station Tokyo, as all CIA stations
had become in the last ten years, was completely electronic now. Destroying
files was a question of seconds and left no telltale smoke.’ ‘Ought to be done
by now.” The procedure was straightforward. The various computer disks
were erased, reformatted, erased again, then subjected to powerful hand-
held magnets. The bad news was that some of the data was irreplaceable,
though not so much so as the people who had generated it. There was now a
total of three “illegals” in Tokyo, the net human-intelligence assets of the
United States in what was-probably-an enemy country.
“What else?”
‘ ‘They’re letting people travel back and forth to their homes, with escort.
Actually they’re playing it pretty cool,” Mrs. Foley said, her surprise not
showing. “It’s not like Teheran in ’79, anyway. For communications they’re
letting us use satellite links so far, but those are being electronically moni-
tored. The embassy has one STU-6 operating. The rest have been deac-
tivated. We still have TAPDANCE capability, too,” she finished, mentioning
the random-pad cipher that all embassies now used through the National Se-
curity Agency’s communications net.
“Other assets?” Ryan asked, hoping that his own secure line was not
compromised, but using cover procedure even so.
“Without the legals they’re pretty much cut off.” The worry in her voice
was clear with that answer, along with quite a bit of self-reproach. The
Agency still had operations in quite a few countries that did not absolutely
require embassy personnel as part of the loop. But Japan wasn’t one of them,
and even Mary Pat couldn’t make hindsight retroactive.
“Do they even know what’s going on?” It was an astute question, the
Deputy Director (Operations) thought, and another needle in her flesh.
“Unknown,” Mrs. Foley admitted. “They didn’t get any word to us.
They either do not know or have been compromised.” Which was a nicer
way of saying arrested.
“Other stations?”
“Jack, we got caught with our knickers clown, and mat’s a l.ut.” I or all
the grief that it had to cause her, Ryan heard, she was reporting lads liki1 a
surgeon on the OR. What a shame that Congress would j;rill lu-t umnrivi
fully for the intelligence lapse. “I have people in Seoul and
shaking
the bushes, but I don’t expect anything back from them for hours.”
Ryan was rummaging through his pink call sheets. “1 have OIK- hciv. an
hour old, from Golovko …”
“Hell, call the bastard,” Mary Pat said at once. “Let me know what ho
says.”
“Will do.” Jack shook his head, remembering what the two men had
talked about. “Get down here fast. Bring Ed. I need a gut call on something
but not over the phone.”
“Be there in thirty,” Mrs. Foley said.
Jack spread out several faxes on his desk, and scanned them quickly. The
Pentagon’s operations people had been faster than the other agencies, but
now DIA was checking in, quickly followed by State. The government was
awake – nothing like gunfire to accomplish that, Jack thought wryly – but
the data was mainly repetitive, different agencies learning the same thing at
different times and reporting in as though it were new. He flipped through
the call sheets again, and clearly the majority of them would say the same
thing. His eyes came back to the one from the chairman of the Russian For-
eign Intelligence Service. Jack lifted the phone and made the call, wondering
which of the phones on Golovko’s desk would ring. He took out a scratch
pad, noting the time. The Signals Office would take note of the call, of
course, and tape it, but he wanted to keep his own notes.
“Hello, Jack,”
“Your private line, Sergey Nikolay’ch?”
“For an old friend, why not?” The Russian paused, ending the joviality
for the day. “I presume you know.”
“Oh, yeah.” Ryan thought for a moment before going on. “We were
caught by surprise,” he admitted. Jack heard a very Russian grunt of sympa-
thy.
“So were we. Completely. Do you have any idea what the madmen are up
to?” the RVS Chairman asked, his voice a mixture of anger and concern.
“No, I see nothing at the moment that makes any sense at all.” And per-